


everyone is better than me, i think || miragehound

by dxntdxdrxgs



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Elliot Witt is a Bisexual Disaster, Hurt/Comfort, Other, PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Trans Elliott Witt, Trans Male Character, Trans Solidarity, also caustic is there sometimes like a dick big brother, also known as mirage can’t handle feelings, and mirage learns he likes mysteries, bloodhound discovers they have a soft spot for cocky boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-04 18:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17902973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dxntdxdrxgs/pseuds/dxntdxdrxgs
Summary: Bloodhound spares Mirage in the ring and he’s never sure why. They spend a night together in a bar, learn things here and there, and when Bloodhound is forced to make a tough decision in the field, they come to terms with the fact that everything they’re feeling might not be strictly platonic.Mirage is hopelessly traumatized and overcompensating for many things— but he likes Bloodhound, likes them more than anything he’s ever liked. They’re enigmatic and so much better than Mirage at everything. How charming.





	1. i never wanted to dance with nobody but you

It’s an insecurity that grips him from the bottom up as soon as his back makes contact with the ground. He scrambles to grip something to keep him from the edge he’s rolling toward, fingers sliding through dirt and ripping at the pads with the effort. A hand snatches the back of his scarf and almost chokes him, sliding down to grab him by the fabric at his shoulder. He looks up to see a mask. 

A competitor, one from an enemy squad. 

Mirage immediately bristles, swinging his limbs wildly before the person above him hauls him up and over the edge. He’s painfully aware he doesn’t have a gun and his holotech is sparking; he curses himself for being so careless, though he’s not exactly terrified, nor does he doubt his ability to still dominate this fight, especially at such a close range. He’s more steady on his feet now, anyway.

The person stares blankly and Mirage can’t bring himself to move. 

“Yellow is far too bright. Paints a target on your back.” 

“Excuse me?” Mirage scoffs, “buddy, the whole enigmatic thing you got goin’ on, while charming, is gonna cost ya. Extra.” 

The other person chuckles, a low and rumbling song, and Mirage hates that it makes an irritated flush rise to his face. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood and surges forward to swing at the competitor, falling victim to a side step and landing face first again. The other has a bird on their shoulder and they kneel, almost eye level with Mirage who’s feeling a blow to his pride more than anywhere else.

“Oh, champion. I have never seen you so careless.” 

“A large man with a shield just punted me off an airship, forgive me if I’ve been thrown off my rhythm.” 

“Ah, that means my squad must be close.” 

Mirage swallows, shaking his arm out and assessing the situation as best he can with his addled brain. Nothing to fear, he tells himself, he can probably still manage a decoy and, better yet, he can flee and find a gun and hopefully regroup with his teammates. Wraith would absolutely never let him hear the end of it, not that he cared, but Pathfinder was always so eager to butt in and Mirage couldn’t be pissed at an adorable fucking robot. 

The other stiffens and looks over their shoulder, leaning in to whisper to the corvid who chitters and caws before it takes off without so much as a glance between the two of them. Mirage realizes he’s gonna have to flee an entire squad, standing and slowly backing up, wary of the other. They watch him, slowly bringing their wrist to their mouth to hit their comm. 

“All clear here. Returning to you shortly.” 

Mirage feels more confused than he ever has, mind spinning and gut reeling with the realization that this competitor has just called their squad off. That this competitor has let him go without so much as an ill word. 

“I don’t need your pity,” Mirage says quietly, brows furrowed. “I—“

“Need to shut up now, friend.” 

Friend. 

 

It isn’t until later, when Mirage is in the city with Wraith that he sees them again. Lilly leans in and mutters in his ear about how good Anita looks under the neon lights, her breath swelled with a fruity drink that Elliott himself wished he had right about now. His tongue was far too heavy for bar conversation. 

They’re leaned in with Anita, chuckling and absent of any apparent alcoholic influence. Elliott himself is far too sober, but he does make a point to mention them to Lilly, seeing as she knows all the competitors far better than he does. She called it intuition, and he told her using a freaky spirit in your head was cheating. Tomato, tomatoe. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Hm? Oh. They, Elliott. They’re a they.” 

“Oh! Oh. Sorry,” he murmurs. 

“Don’t know their real name. Seems like they took care to hide it. They go by Bloodhound.” 

For some odd reason, it made sense. Lilly watched him for a moment and hummed quietly. “They’re the pretty one you said saved you, aren’t they? How could you assume they’re pretty? Must be a reason for that mask.” 

Elliott huffs and crosses his arms. “Well they... their voice is nice.”

She gives him a genuine smile. “Go offer them a drink, then.” 

Lilly brushes past him and steals Anita from the conversation she’s in with the mysterious competitor, which gives Elliott about five seconds to quell his bisexual panic because they’re staring at him and he can feel it. He doesn’t flounder in the ring, he’s never afraid of dying, but the thought of talking to Bloodhound alone again has his heart racing. 

He steadies himself and glides over to the empty seat to Bloodhound’s left, smiling as convincingly as he can, but the other doesn’t buy it. They look back toward Anita, who has excused herself with Lilly. Elliott can see them tense. 

“So... drinks? Yes or no? Can you drink with that mask?” 

They relax a bit and sigh, “no, yes.” 

Elliott hums quietly. “Yeah, don’t feel like drinking much tonight either,” he lies.

“The way you’ve eyed those women suggests otherwise, friend.” 

Elliott feels his face flush, but this time it’s at the nickname. He mutters to himself and decides that he does, in fact, need a drink to deal with this situation. The way Bloodhound annunciates their words makes Elliott bristle with jealousy briefly. Avoid “p” words, he tells himself, don’t stutter and embarrass yourself. 

“I like looking. I hope I didn’t look like an ass... Or an objectifying pr— uh, pr... jerk.”

Good job, Elliott, so goddamn smooth. Where was the suave champion who charmed millions on national television? 

“You didn’t,” Bloodhound says sweetly, a bit out of turn from their usual neutral tone, “do not worry.” 

“Um,” Elliott draws a blank, “Elliott. That’s... my name.” 

God fucking damn. 

“Bloodhound.” 

“I know.” Oh god, that’s creepy. “I mean, uh, Lilly told me. Not— not that I was asking, she just... mentioned it.” 

Bloodhound doesn’t say anything but their shoulders twitch, almost a laugh, at least Elliott takes it that way and he smiles, knowing he doesn’t have to cut his losses just yet. He waves the bartender over and motions for a shot vaguely, quirking his brow when the man leans forward on the counter. 

“Your friend there gonna order somethin’? He’s been sittin’ there all night.” 

Elliott notices it with a sort of pinch in his gut, the way Bloodhound minutely turns their body away and seemingly makes themself smaller while still trying to appear unfazed; Elliott knows all too well how it feels, but he doesn’t know how comfortable Bloodhound is with people being corrected. 

“They’re not really a drinker,” Elliott supplies, and that seems to be satisfactory because he receives a shot a second later. 

“I. Appreciate the understanding.” 

Elliott hums, throwing the shot back and grimacing when it burns his throat. “Well, I’d be a shitty trans person if I didn’t know how to discreetly correct people, wouldn’t I?” 

Bloodhound makes a shocked noise, and turns to give Elliott their full attention. He smiles genuinely, “Surprised? That’s a new one. It’s flattering, thank you.” 

“You understand. That is a welcomed change.” 

“Anyone give you shit?” 

“No, I would not give them the chance,” they said with a smile in their voice, “by the Allfather, they would not get the chance.” 

“That’s hot,” Elliott snickers, receiving a noncommittal shrug. 

“That is not my thing.” 

“Mm,” Elliott grabbed another shot, “flirting?” 

“Physical intimacy. I do not appreciate being touched.” 

It didn’t deter Elliott at all. “Well, just let me know if I ever overstep, okay? Sometimes my mouth works faster than my brain.” 

“I have noticed,” Bloodhound laughs, “you are funny, Elliott.” 

He smiles, illuminated by the neon everywhere, and there’s an element of shyness to it. He makes small conversation with Bloodhound for the rest of the night and thereafter it feels like they’re all he thinks of. Lilly called him stupid, he didn’t even know what their face looked like, but he knew their voice and their personality and that was more than enough. He knew Bloodhound, he didn’t have to see them. 

 

 

The next time they’re in the ring, Bloodhound and Caustic are on his squad. He knows Wraith is gonna make fun of him for how attentive he’s being to Bloodhound, giving them first pick at weapons and generally giving Caustic nothing but biting comments calling him edgy. Caustic in turn called him a pansy, so he figures that it’s really tradeoff, balancing the universe. 

“Optics here,” Mirage says over the comm, turning to say something else and meeting the business end of a man’s pistol. How the fuck was he that quiet? 

Mirage clicked his thumbs and ducked, decoys sprouting up as he made a run for the compound to his right. He’s sure he’s made it, before a shot rings out and a sharp pain rips through his side. He hisses out a yell and fires back, downing and killing the man.

Out of all the wounds he’s sustained, he’s never been shot, and he’s never been alone without a syringe or medkit. He takes a stuttering and sharp breath, slumping down against the back of the door with a sort of pathetic whine. He tells himself he’s not afraid of anything, most of all dying, but his voice shakes over the comm. 

“I’ve been hit,” he swallows dry, “no meds.” 

“Where—“ Caustic groans over the comm when Bloodhound cuts him off. 

“I’ve got you, elskan,” Bloodhound says more to themself, but still on the comm, and Mirage’s stomach seizes as he leans to the side and dry heaves with a groan. 

It doesn’t take long for Bloodhound to reach him, and he freezes when he hears gunfire outside. It sounds like a whole group and Mirage chances a look through the window to his right, seeing Bloodhound metaphorically and physically backed into a corner by an enemy squad. Mirage feels himself spark to life, dragging himself up and grabbing his peacekeeper, kicking the doors open and sending out a decoy to take the brunt of their fire. He slips behind the enemy team and takes one down, then two, and— 

The last one crumples and he looks up to see Caustic shooting them both a glare. He turns tail and heads back in the building, letting Mirage drop to his knees with a wince. He wonders if Bloodhound was going to run and leave him there, not that he’d blame them. Mirage had been stabbed, hit with arrows, poisoned, beat to death, everything in the world, but he’d always avoided a gunshot wound. He never missed the skewed look of terror and pain whenever someone got shot, and he prayed now that when Bloodhound slid over to him and tugged him back inside the compound, that they couldn’t see that look on his face. 

They stabbed a syringe into his wrist, cradling his head with a steady hand at the back of his neck. Elliott was sweating, eyes unfocused and thankful for the cool leather gloves Bloodhound was wearing. They frowned when the syringe emptied and Elliott seemed no better. 

“Vertu kyrr,” they murmured. 

“I ain’t sure if I’m just half dead,” Elliott said deliriously, “or if you’re sp— sp... spea... sayin’ uh... Different language.” 

Bloodhound cursed lightly in the same language, “stay still.” 

“Wha... s’wrong?” Mirage’s head is feeling a lot lighter than it should and his arms are heavy and fuzzy. “Bloo... H-Hound, wha...” 

“Shh, Blekking, shh. Look at me, Mirage?” 

His voice sounds far away and a stinging, sizzling feeling begins to crawl up Mirage’s side. Caustic barges in and nearly gives him a heart attack, but Bloodhound remains unfazed, staring at the wound in his side. He pants erratically and Caustic leans in, tsking lightly. 

“Mm, poison bullet. Genius really! Even if you get got, you get the other guy.” 

Mirage’s eyes widen and he shakily grabs for Bloodhound’s arm. He’s died so many times before, waking up back in the sterile white beds in the Apex lounge, never so painful as this. His side burns and it feels like a fire is lit inside him as he whines pathetically and shoves his head forward and into Bloodhound’s chest. 

“Leave him,” Caustic says, “we’ll come back for his banner.” 

Mirage doesn’t want to be left alone, even if he knows he’s coming right back. This is painful, achingly slow and bitter. He knows the medicine won’t work and won’t numb that pain, and he freezes when he feels Bloodhound slip their knife from their sheath. 

Out of all the competitors, Mirage had never fallen to Bloodhound. 

“W-Wha... no, hey, wha’d I do wrong...?” Mirage asks weakly, an ebbing fear he’d carried over from childhood. He hoped that wherever the cameras were now, that they weren’t on him, that his mom wasn’t watching her son die like this. He told himself he’d be right back, rise again and be the champion, with little more than ten minutes to spare. That was if they got to the beacon, if they didn’t die, if... Mirage always hated being in that limbo. Not quite dead and not quite alive, so painfully aware of everything and nothing all at once. 

“Nothing, you’ve done nothing wrong, Mirage,” Bloodhound assures. It makes Mirage angry. 

“You’re d-doin’ a... s’piss poor job of hidin’ that knife,” he hisses, suddenly engulfed by a fizzling in his veins that makes his eyes go wide as he wails. Bloodhound looks on helplessly and Caustic frowns. 

“Shut him up, Hound, or everyone in the goddamn arena is gonna find us.” 

“I...” Bloodhound froze, fingers rigid around their knife. “Elliott, look at me. Here.” 

They easily slide one glove off, and Mirage has enough brain power left to acknowledge just how dark their skin is in contrast to his own. He thinks, briefly, when the soft palm touches his face, that it’s the most beautiful color he’s ever seen. This close, he can see their eyes, shining brown through the glass and he smiles weakly. 

“You’re pretty,” is all Mirage manages. Bloodhound’s brow furrows, and Mirage relishes the fact that he can see it. Behind them, Caustic scoffs. 

“He’s delirious.” 

“Oh shove it, you ugly bastard,” Mirage grunts. His eyes flick down to the knife again, and it’s far too close for comfort. He tenses when the sharp edge digs into his ribs. Bloodhound is shaking minutely. Mirage has never seen that. “It’s o-okay... I... get it now.” 

“You’re so brave,” Bloodhound whispers, “Allfather, leiða hann aftur til mín.” 

“Don’t keep me w...aiting,” Mirage struggles out. Bloodhound nods, before the knife digs in deep and fast. Mirage gasps desperately as his throat fills with blood and his wide eyes search Bloodhound’s figure. He knows why it’s been done, understands, but as his body goes limp he can’t help but feel like they betrayed him. 

Bloodhound doesn’t move until they’re sure Mirage is gone and his banner pings, bright and inviting against his wrist. Caustic is altogether unbothered, and Bloodhound knows they should be. It shouldn’t matter, seeing as they’ve put squadmates out of their misery before, but this is Mirage. The hopeless man who’d been so unwaveringly kind for no reason. They did not enjoy this hunt. 

“Gotta go respawn lover boy, on with ya,” Caustic mutters, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the body slumped there lifelessly. 

Bloodhound retrieves their knife and glove, nodding numbly.


	2. the only hope for me is you alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliott and Bloodhound deal with the aftermath of their encounter in the ring. The press is ruthless and ignorant, and Makoa is there when Elliott needs him, and Bloodhound is struggling.

When Elliott awoke and gasped, eyes wide and mouth open in a scream, everyone in the med room looked startled, jumping and staring at him before they began to move about their mundane tasks once again. He leaned over to his right and grabbed the small tablet there, screen lit up with the fight still going on. He was terrified of what being here meant.

 

He watched in awe as Bloodhound, covered in dirt and grime and Elliott’s very own blood, slid and weaved away from attackers like their was home in the ring, firing warning shots that only Elliott felt he knew were warning shots and not missed ones. Bloodhound always gave their opponents ample time to best them, explaining that it simply wouldn’t be a fair fight otherwise.

 

He tapped the side of the screen as another nurse came over to hand him back his bloodied clothes, muttering his appreciation as the banners of fallen legends filled the right edge of the screen. He hummed nervously; Caustic was downed. Bloodhound looked like they were absolutely aware of this fact, shooting all three members of a squad with terrifying precision, looking up at the camera that now lulled near them. Elliott wished he was there to help them.

 

Bloodhound took champion, and for the first time, Elliott was happy it wasn’t him being swarmed with reporters when he left the ring. It was an odd sense of calm, and then guilt, then replaced by fear and anger. Everything he’d ever felt hit him and swelled in his skull like an atomic concoction of emotions ready to burst. Hadn’t they promised to not keep him waiting? Not to have him left behind, here of all places, in this sterile white room that reminded him all too much of his doctor’s visits as a child. People tried to tell him he only “wanted” to be a boy because of his brothers, but his mother believed him, and she made all that confusing pain go away as soon as she possibly could. He loved her unconditionally.

 

“Mirage?”

 

Lilly’s gentle hand on his shoulder jarred him enough to make him hit his head on the wall behind him, hissing and jerking up into a straighter sitting position, glaring at her. “What?”

 

“Everyone’s talking about... You.” She seems unsure, weight shifting from side to side, “and Hound. Sponsors went crazy at the content, tons of people swooning over how tender you two were together.”

 

“How do you know that?” He groaned, holding his sore side. He was getting too damn old to be fucking shot with poison bullets.

 

“Bloodhound’s getting swamped with reporters asking if ‘he’s’ gay.”

 

Elliott feels like he’s gonna throw up, face paling as he motions for the tiny white trashcan beside the bed, and Lilly grabs it and hoists it up without second thought. She eyes him sympathetically as he empties nothing but stomach acid into the can. “Oh my god, I’ve ruined their life...”

 

“They could’ve corrected people, El, I—“

 

“You don’t _get_ it,” he said lowly, angrily slinging the trashcan away and standing, jerking the IVs from his arms. “It’s a fucking nightmare to correct people when you’ve got a beard and a freshly baked dick between your legs, Lilly, but people get that. The media fucking laps up the whole binary struggle, but this? Bloodhound would be eaten fucking alive. So no, they can’t just ‘correct’ people if they ever wanna be taken seriously. I don’t have to worry that much anymore, I’m lucky, but they...”

 

“I’m sorry,” Lilly says quietly, moving to throw Elliott’s now clean underwear at him. He makes a point to put it and his allotted civilian sweatpants on under the gown, shrugging it off when it’s time to put his shirt on. He eyes the bloodied suit, knowing he’d have to have his mom come fix it or do a shit patch job himself, either way the gaping hole could not remain much longer.

 

“Do they still hurt?” Lilly asks curiously, hand raising to touch his surgery scars with interest. He smiles lightly at her furrowed brow, finally relaxing a bit.

 

“Nah, they’re pretty much numb. Sometimes a little tender if I’ve physically exerted myself, cause all my skin has a tendency to hurt then, but nah.”

 

She nods, drawing her hand back and staring a bit more at his chest. He might’ve punched anyone else, but this was Lilly, his best friend, and the girl who knew he was trans before the Sponsors even suspected. Any curiosity she had shown had always been genuine and devoid of malice. It was nice sometimes, to have someone be interested in his patchwork quilt of a body, even if it was purely platonic.

 

He finally shrugs his shirt on, and Lilly grabs his bicep, fanning herself dramatically as he laughed. “Oh, Mr Mirage, you are built like a brick shit house!”

 

“I don’t know what that means,” he scoffed breathlessly, making Lilly drop her facade with a snort.

 

“I think Bloodhound should be back in the Apex lounge soon,” she deflects, eyes raking up to his with sympathy. “There will probably be press there, as well.”

 

He nods numbly, letting her lead the way as he cradled his ruined clothes carefully, making a point to glare hard enough at everyone he passed so that they wouldn’t speak to him. He didn’t know if he could conjure up anything but tired babbling at this point.

 

The Apex lounge wasn’t entirely lavish, but it was nice, red carpets and a large red couch in the middle. To the far end there was a bar, and the room was framed with windows on every side, all overlooking the arena. He figures he could’ve come and watched Bloodhound here, but it seemed odd to do that so openly where any other Legends could see it. For now, he moves toward the couch to finally sit on a comfortable piece of furniture, not quite making it before he‘s grabbed by the arm by an overzealous and young reporter. He groans inwardly; if he says anything wrong his Sponsors will have his ass. The man must’ve been doing some exclusive piece or known someone in the “in crowd” to even get in the Apex Lounge.

 

“Mirage, correct? My name is—“

 

“Not to be rude,” Elliott smiles, putting on the most charm he possibly can, “but is there any way I could take a r-r... r— uh, can... can we reschedule this? I’m _very_ tired.”

 

“Of course!” the young man says, looking behind him with a sinister glint in his eye, speaking louder now, “I’m sure you’re very tired after all that physical exertion, Mr Witt. Perhaps Bloodhound will have something more to say on the matter?”

 

Elliott spins around and sees them, ducking through the door, figure slouched and displaying more fatigue than he’s ever seen them allow. Still, they straighten when they see the man, and Elliott scowls.

 

“Leave them alone, man,” he says through his teeth, turning around.

 

“So there is something there, then, Mr Witt?”

 

Elliott sees red.

 

“Patience is a virtue,” Bloodhound says calmly, walking up beside Elliott and discretely touching his arm. He wishes it didn’t have the immediate subduing effect that it does, finally turning to face the man with Bloodhound beside him. “I would caution you to learn it.”

 

“Elliot called you a ‘they.’ How mysterious.” The man tapped something down on his tablet and Elliott wanted to snap it, and himself, in half.

 

“We do not know each other that well,” Bloodhound supplies, “just barely acquaintances.”

 

That stung.

 

“Exactly,” Elliott muttered, self consciously toeing at the carpet, “so if you could just leave us the fuck alone, then—“

 

“Perhaps another time,” the report smiles slyly, eyeing the decreasing space between the two legends. “Have a good day, gentlemen.”

 

When the door to the lounge closes behind them, Lilly is gone after the man and the lounge is silent and empty, devoid of the usual life it has after an invigorating match. Bloodhound steps back and grabs Elliott’s shoulders, turning him to face them even though his eyes are still glued to the carpet.

 

“I am so very sorry,” they say lowly.

 

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Elliott asks breathlessly, confused, “Hound, if it weren’t for me the press wouldn’t be ten fucking miles up your ass. Misgendering you, calling you— a-as... asking if you’re gay, Jesus, I—“

 

“You did not tell them to do any of those things, as far as I am aware,” Bloodhound says, a playful edge in their tone. They grow quieter again. “That is not all I am sorry for.”

 

Their hand skirts up dangerously close to his chest, and Elliott can’t help the fear that grips him as he shies away. It hadn’t been malice driven on either side, and Bloodhound had saved him a whole world of pain in lieu of a painful death. But knowing that they’d killed him still scared him, still hurt. His eyes found the floor again and Bloodhound drew their hand back.

 

“I see.”

 

Elliott opened his mouth to say something, but he just couldn’t, swallowing the words as Bloodhound’s other hand dropped from his shoulder. He could vaguely feel the tendrils of a panic attack snaking through his mind, gripping his throat and holding his tongue as he closed his eyes.

 

“Elliott!”

 

Gibraltar’s voice makes him nearly pounce out of his skin, looking up at Bloodhound and finding nothing but an empty space. He spins around so quick it makes him dizzy, but the hunter is nowhere to be seen. There’s no one but him, and a very confused looking Makoa.

 

“Hey,” he says shakily, practically sprinting behind the bar to pour himself a glass of whiskey. It was always Elliott’s favorite; it was always his brother’s favorite. His oldest brother, stoic and strong and the most distinguished man he’d ever met. He was almost never out of his military dress blues. “How’d you do today?”

 

“Better than you,” Makoa joked, stopping as soon as he saw the shaking way Elliott fumbled with his drink. “I’ll lock the door. Let’s just talk, okay?”

 

Elliott releases a sigh he didn’t know he’d been holding.

 

Gibraltar locks the door like he promised, moving to sit on a bar stool in front of Elliott. He chuckles to himself, despite the internal panic he’s struggling with. Just like old times.

 

“Can I get you anything...?” He asks helplessly, finally looking up to Makoa, who seems as cheery as ever.

 

“No, no,” he waves him off. “How are you?”

 

“Good.”

 

“Noah called me until I was lucid enough to wake up,” Makoa chuckled, noticing that Elliott relaxed when he brought up his boyfriend, tensing again with his next words, “told me to get on the tablet and watch you and Bloodhound. He was crying something awful over you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Elliott says dumbly.

 

“Don’t apologize, now, we _both_ love you. He was just worried. Told me to make sure I invited you over again for dinner soon.”

 

“That why you’re here?” Elliott chuckles, “you’re _whipped_ , Makoa.”

 

“Happily,” the larger man smiles, voice content. Elliott wonders what being that in love is like. “But no, I wanted to talk to you. Truly. Like we did when we were younger.”

 

Makoa and Elliott had grown up in the same city, close to each other and friendly enough to one another as children. When they hit their teenage years, Makoa began sticking up for the smaller boy, who was a spitfire dumbass, picking fights and ultimately losing every time. When he got on T and started working out, that all changed, yet Makoa never quite kicked the habit. It was amazing seeing Elliott now, however, taller and broader shouldered, confident and cocky and all the things he should’ve been since birth.

 

“I’m fine, I die a lot in the ring,” Elliott murmurs.

 

“You’ve never been shot, or poisoned like that. Bloodhound looked absolutely devastated.” Makoa paused to let Elliott speak, seeing as he was gripping his glass of liquor so tight it might bust.

 

“You can’t see their face, Makoa, how the fuck do you know what _they_ felt?”

 

“I could see yours, you damn open book of a man!” Makoa all but yells now, wrenching the glass from Elliott and downing it in one go. He jabs a stern finger in the other’s face. “We aren’t starting this unhealthy coping bullshit _again_. I won’t have it.”

 

“Give me a goddamn rest, Makoa! I’m tired, okay? Fuck, I’m tired and I want to get p-p-p... pi, uh, piss drunk.” Elliott takes a deep breath. “Please, just...”

 

“You’re confused because this is the first time you’ve died so intimately aware of the other person,” Makoa supplies. “You cried every time we were in the same room together after you downed me the first time.”

 

“That was different.”

 

“Really? Imagine how Bloodhound must be feeling, then.” Makoa was always so infuriatingly wise.

 

“They just, they were doing their job. They’re ruthless in the ring, you’ve seen them.”

 

“Yet they didn’t want to hurt you,” Makoa says, leaning forward and gripping Elliott by the back of the neck. He brings their foreheads together and feels the smaller man relax exponentially. “Do not let fear cloud your judgment here, dear one, Bloodhound is not so strong. They are a good hunter, when they do not care for their pray.”

 

“I barely know them,” Elliot mutters, shoulders sagging.

 

“Then learn about them,” Makoa instructs.

 

They pull apart and Elliott makes a noise in the back of his throat, face flushed as Makoa slinks away. He feels like a child that just got scolded by their father, though he supposed that was approximately what had happened. He bit his finger quietly, mind turning.

 

 

 

 

 

Bloodhound was leaned against the railing of their balcony. They had taken to living in the city, for what it was worth, they enjoyed it thoroughly. There was always noise to keep them distracted and people to watch. The other Legends either stayed on their own or in the barracks together if they’d come from off-world, and until now, Bloodhound assumed no one knew where they lived.

 

No, it wasn’t until a rock knocked them in the shoulder with blinding force that they realized Elliott Witt knew where they lived.

 

Elliott was standing below the balcony with wide eyes, laughing high pitched and nervous, “oh shit, did I hit you?”

 

Bloodhound tilted their head. “ _Yes_.”

 

Elliott laughed harder now.

 

“Are you drunk?” Bloodhound asked, folding their arms and leaning against the railing again to watch the man below them.

 

“No!” Elliot called back, “but I wanna be! And dying and getting drunk alone all in one day seems like a bit much, even for me!”

 

“I don’t drink, elskan. Please ask another.”

 

“What does that mean? El... Ul.... The word? You called me it in the ring!”

 

Bloodhound could feel their own facade crumbling inside the mask, grasping for it desperately with the remainder of their good conscious. They had hurt Elliott, broken his trust, they should not be so keen on him.

 

“It means coward.”

 

Elliott looked down and laughed again, this time smaller, “oh. Yeah, yeah... that’s a good, um, that’s me.”

 

Bloodhound’s stomach churned. Elliott was always faux cocky, wasn’t he? All that confidence was fake, and he was being vulnerable enough to let them see it, and they had ground their boot into it and irritated an already obviously sore wound. They took a deep breath.

 

“Why are you really here, Mirage?”

 

So formal.

 

“I... Wanted to talk? As friends? If that’s okay.”

 

“You could have called me,” Bloodhound says, “you did not have to throw rocks at my balcony like a lovesick teenager.”

 

“I was thinking it was more ‘brooding Romeo’ than lovesick teenager,” Elliott smiles. How he still smiled at them so genuinely was a mystery.

 

“Come in, then.”

 

Elliott lets himself into the small two story home, everything steel gray and cold, almost clinical. There are no decorations hanging on the walls, save for a small knitted piece, framed with care that says “Loki” on it in a fine font. He has no idea what it means and doesn’t loiter, instead booking it to the stairs and up into the balcony, moving through what he assumes is Bloodhound’s bedroom. He suddenly feels smothered with intimacy. He remembers them telling him they didn’t like physical touches, yet they had touched him so many times he thought his head might spin and pop right off his shoulders.

 

“Hey, Hound.”

 

“Elliott.”

 

He leans in beside Bloodhound, looking out at the twinkling lights of the budding city, blinking curiously. “It’s oddly quiet out here.”

 

“You just have poor hearing,” they chuckle.

 

“Maybe,” Elliott cedes, “maybe that’s why I keep getting the shit beat out of me and not noticing.”

 

Bloodhound flexes their fingers absentmindedly, turning their head slightly to show attention. “I am sorry, Elliott.”

 

“For not letting me suffer?” Elliott asked quietly. Bloodhound shrugged. “I don’t blame you. I don’t. I’m just— I’ve got a lotta stuff going’ on, up, up here. All of it is from people way worse than you could ever dream about being, sugar.”

 

Bloodhound feels their cheeks warm at the nickname.

 

“I saw the look of betrayal in your eyes. How you flinched away from me in the lounge. I fear I have ruined any hope of companionship.”

 

“I’m just finicky!” Elliott announces, dramatically laying across the railing and worming his way in front of Bloodhound. He stares their eyes down through the mask and they feel all too bare. “I promise you made the right call. And you won after! You did so good.”

 

The praise make’s their body vibrate with energy and they slip their gloves off again, both this time, and cradle Elliott’s face in their hands. He seems completely caught off guard, face warming under their palms.

 

“You were very brave. I will not fail you like this again.”

 

“I’m a big boy, Hound. Let me take care of you for once.”

 

“That’s not something I can accept at this very second,” they say truthfully, “but one day, perhaps. We are assigned on opposing squads for the next game.”

 

Elliott’s eyes sadden, losing their edge and searching Bloodhound’s mask for any semblance of a lie. He swallows. “What happens if we’re the last two there?”

 

“Then we put on a good show. And we fight hard, and good,” they rub a thumb over his cheekbone, “like we are supposed to.”

 

“I can’t kill you.”

 

“Then I will kill you,” Bloodhound tries and fails to sound cold, “do not hesitate, darling, to strike at me. Please.”

 

Elliott seems unreasonably bothered, but nods. “Alright.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Promise.”


	3. i hope you’re ready for a firefight, cause the devil’s got your number

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elliott realizes he’s a monster. Or a killing machine. Whichever the media prefers. 
> 
> Bloodhound realizes something has happened to Elliott, long before the Apex games. They also realize his trauma might rival their own. 
> 
> Pain, pain, and more pain. 
> 
> Also, the media is still prevalent as ever. And reporters are dicks. Fetishizing, hungry, feral dicks. Bloodhound doesn’t care for the lot of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is short because this motherfucker got class tomorrow and he’s Tired As Shit but i’ve gotten so so SO many nice comments i just had to get a bit out before i fall asleep. i do read every comment! i have trouble responding to people bc What The Fuck Is Socialization but either way, i feel like i’m venting to y’all through mirage, or projecting, whatever. either way i hope you guys enjoy this a little!!

The next match was tough, and Mirage found himself praying that someone got to Bloodhound before him, or that he met his end first. Anything to save him from having to fight them one on one, anything to keep him from having to keep their dinner date tonight without the air of solemn betrayal hanging over them. Mirage is a strong man, smiling and winking at one of the cameras when they near him, but he is not strong enough to handle that.

 

“ _Promise_?”

 

“ _Promise_.”

 

He clutched his Wingman in his right hand and downed Caustic, who was looking extremely pissed that Mirage’s squad had eliminated his entirely. Wraith finished him off and Mirage threw a smug smile in his direction, even blowing a kiss to sweeten the deal. It was all in good fun, he told himself.

 

His eyes raked up the side of the mountain, frowning when he saw Bloodhound’s squad there, their banner the largest and brightest. Nine kills so far, and the match had barely taken off. Three squads had fallen, entirely to their will, and Bangalore’s banner beside him read out five kills. Together, they were demolishing the competition.

 

On the other edge of the ring, Makoa watched the way Bloodhound kept raising his wrist to check the remaining Legends in play. He knew exactly what they were looking for and he smiled gently, clasping their shoulder with one of his big hands as the battle lulled. “Elliott has told me much about you, friend!”

 

Bloodhound seemed terrified briefly, eyes darting side to side even though Makoa couldn’t see them, “oh?”

 

“He says you’re a kind soul,” Makoa nods, looking up at the sky. _You’re_ _gonna_ _owe_ _me_ _big_ _for_ _being_ _your_ _wingman_. “He never shuts up about you.”

 

“I never imaged Mirage to be the type to shut up about anything, really,” Bloodhound chuckled. Makoa wanted to groan; they were so painfully Elliott’s type. He liked anyone who gave him trouble, didn’t want him, or just flat out ignored him. Makoa knew it had to stem from something traumatic in his childhood, the one thing they just didn’t talk about, but he never pushed Elliott to tell him.

 

“If he makes it outta this and it’s just us versus his squad, I’ll take him out.”

 

“Do you find me incapable?” Bloodhound’s voice lilts slightly and they raise their chin absently. Makoa shakes his head.

 

“No, only I don’t think you would be able to sleep tonight if you did it.”

 

Bloodhound stalks forward, leading the charge against another squad that they down effortlessly.

 

“ _So_ _dinner_ _tomorrow_?”

 

“ _Only_ _if_ _you_ _promise_ _to_ _fight_ , _Elliott_ , _I_ _don’t_ _believe_ _that_ _you_ _will_ —“

 

“ _Promise_ , _promise_. _Extra_ _cheesy_. _We’ll_ _kill_ _each_ _other_ _then_ _lick_ _our_ _wounds_ _in_ _some_ _greasy_ _burger_ _joint_.”

 

“ _Deal_.”

 

Mirage slid down a hill near the middle of the ring, pupils dilated with adrenaline and fear. His teammates were gone, respawn timed out, and he was yet again on his own. Just like the first time he’d met Bloodhound, though now as he looked up and saw Three Squads Remaining he couldn’t help but fear he was about to meet his end here and now.

 

He was grabbed and jerked back by his scarf and he gagged helplessly, coughing and wheezing and shakily making a grab for his gun, only to have it knocked from his hands. The camera swooped down to focus on him as the scarf was jerked back harder. He remembers the first time someone grabbed him by that, and it was Bloodhound, but these large harsh hands weren’t nearly as gentle.

 

Mirage stomped the person’s foot and threw his head back, wincing at the crack that followed, tailed by venomous curses. He dropped and grabbed the Wingman, firing wildly and toppling the large man. He struggled to get out from under the lifeless body, eyes widening when he noticed the man’s squad members closing in on him.

 

He watched in awe as Bloodhound and Gibraltar slid down the hill and killed one of the other two. Makoa missed his first shot and got killed immediately.

 

So here they were. Alone.

 

Mirage stood quietly as the camera circled the pair.

 

“You promised, elskan.”

 

“So did you.”

 

They watched each other for what seemed like an eternity, deathly silent and solemn, before Bloodhound threw their knife to engage the other and Elliott clicked his thumbs together and went invisible. His doubles sprung up and Bloodhound didn’t appear the least bit fooled, but they also had no idea where Mirage was. They should’ve tracked him, but didn’t have the heart to. He took advantage of this, knocking away their gun and landing straight on their chest. When he fazed back into sight, he watched the way Bloodhound’s lungs stuttered.

 

Mirage never considered himself a monster until now.

 

He shifted one leg and could see the way Bloodhound’s eyes screwed shut in agony through their mask when he did it. Broken ribs. Elliott had broken their ribs with his sheer force alone. He slipped one of Bloodhound’s very own knives from their sheath and they did not protest.

 

“Where?” he asked quietly.

 

“Throat, please,” they answered.

 

Mirage felt the bile from his stomach rising. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Another silent ten seconds washed over them.

 

“Mirage—“

 

He leaned forward and whispered in their ear when he shoved the knife into their chest, right over their heart. Bloodhound’s whole body tensed in pain and Elliott’s shook in return.

 

“Please _forgive_ me.”

 

 

 

 

 

Bloodhound was thankful the nurses never removed his mask for long, and also equally so that they were always given a private room. It kept unexpected attention off them, and was one of the stipulations of signing one of their current sponsors on. It cost more, but they knew they put on a good show and, in turn, got their sponsors some good money.

 

They leaned over the side of the sterile bed and began to reassemble their gear on, slipping their mask on in a similar fashion. There was a new scar on their chest now, a thin line over their heart. A reminder that Elliott had not slit their throat like they asked, and had instead chosen the most humane way someone who wasn’t a hunter could think of to kill them. It was a kind notion, even gruesome as it were.

 

They stalked out of the med area toward the Apex lounge, nodding politely to Makoa who begins to walk beside them, matching strides until he keeps pace. “How you holding up?”

 

“Fine?” Bloodhound says, more of a confused question than an assertion. They’re not sure what suddenly interests Gibraltar about them.

 

“Well, uh, Mirage— Elliott is getting his dick bit off by the press right now. They’re asking him if you’re a pair of star crossed lovers, asking him about his sexuality relentlessly, and Jesus, Bloodhound, the man has not _once_ misgendered you.”

 

They swallowed.

 

“He hasn’t gendered you at _all_. In fact, that sly bastard hasn’t used a single damn pronoun.”

 

They felt their chest swell with something they thought they’d stamped out within themself long ago. Bloodhound has never met someone so tactful as Elliott; the man always danced around your pronouns until you told him, and he would finally relax then, making easy conversation. He was conscious of how people presented when he came up with nicknames for them, reserving “dude, bro,” and other masculine ones for masculine presenting people. “Girl,” seemed to always fall from his lips in a staccato fashion with laughs jutting in around the edges to make sure the feminine person he’d spoken it to was okay with it. Elliott rarely offended anyone.

 

In fact, Bloodhound wondered with an increasing worry, just how hard it was to be so warm and welcoming all the time? Elliott was not so sure of himself, they knew as much now, but he was friendly and boisterous. He’d helped Lilly pick her name out because he said she reminded him of a flower. Bloodhound learned that story through Anita, who had every intention of outing all Mirage’s embarrassing secrets. Turns out he had very little sense of fragile masculinity, and embraced his feminine side. They adored that.

 

Adoration.

 

They did not know Elliott very well, but then again, they knew more than most. And now, as they entered the lounge and let their eyes rake over him, they were certain of one thing: Elliott Witt needed a break from superstardom before it broke him. His brows were furrowed, brown eyes tired and unfocused as the blinding camera lights flashed around him. Bloodhound loathed the fact that high class press was allowed in the lounge after matches, purely for this point.

 

“What is your relationship with Bloodhound? Are you dating him? Are you gay, Mr Witt?”

 

“Bisexual, darling,” he said tiredly, “I’ve answered this question at least twelve times. Bloodhound and I are acquaintances, just like Gibraltar and I.”

 

“You don’t give Gibraltar bedroom eyes!”

 

“What are you, ten?” Elliott snapped, anger lilting on the last word. “Please, ladies and gents, another time? I’m very tired.”

 

“Bloodhound keeping you up late, Mr Witt?”

 

Elliott clenched his jaw, and Bloodhound frowned in their mask at the red blotches of anger that worked their way up his neck. He was beyond stressed, and Bloodhound cleared their throat, against their better judgement.

 

“We are friends,” they said loudly to the room, “but I do not appreciate the fetishization. I’m sure Mirage does not either.”

 

The tension in the other man’s shoulders melts and they sag briefly, as he gives Bloodhound the most sincere pair of puppy eyes they’ve ever seen. Elliott looks positively exhausted, beyond the point of a restful sleep, closer to a dead tired one. The reporters burst out into whispers before a rather ruffled Apex official comes in to inform them their time is up. Makoa takes a couple questions as they leave, loudly announcing that he is, in fact, a very loud and proud homosexual and Bloodhound snorts slightly.

 

“Thank you,” Elliott says quietly, looking at his feet as Bloodhound nears him. They make a small noise, taking his chin in their gloved fingers. He looks on the verge of passing out.

 

“We can reschedule dinner, Elliott, you need a nap.”

 

His eyes sadden and dart to look everywhere but Bloodhound’s mask.

 

“Yeah! Yeah, ‘course we can. Um, but, if you— listen, I get it if you... don’t really wanna t, uh, ta-tal...” his head nods briefly with effort and his cheeks flush in embarrassment, “talk. To _me_ , anymore, I get it. I don’t blame you.”

 

“I want to talk to you when you are coherent enough to hold a conversation,” they say, “I can assure you it will take more than the press to frighten me away.”

 

They let go of him, and he shuffles nervously, eyes sliding back up Bloodhound’s form and landing right over their heart. They watch his fingers twitch and they nod, letting him bring his hand up to rest on the gash in their tac gear there. He frowns.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t, didn’t do as you asked, I just...”

 

“You were merciful,” they said quietly, “I believe the Gods blessed me in letting me die by your hand.”

 

Elliott swallowed thickly and jerked his hand away. “I ain’t a blessing to anybody.”

 

Bloodhound opens their mouth to speak, before they notice the tight lipped smile Elliott wears.

 

“I’ll call you later, maybe reschedule dinner. Bye, hound.”

 

They turn to watch him leave, head tilted.

 

What was that about?


	4. should have told my mother, ‘mom, i love you’ like a good son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliott’s mom makes an appearance and so does his dad, though it’s much different. 
> 
> He also has trauma. Lots of trauma. 
> 
> Bloodhound does too, though they aren’t sure what to do about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so rushed and jumbled i’m sorry if it’s not coherent it’s 3:18 am and i have class at 9:30 hyuck

Elliott slunk away as best he could. He was small, eyes wide and teary, body aching with overexertion and pain. It all fizzled out through his limbs and made his fingers pulse with his heartbeat. He closed his mind off in that moment, willed everything to stop, when a large hand twisted his ankle and jerked him back.

 

“Dad!”

 

-.-.-.-

 

Currently, Elliot shot bolt upright in his large and empty bed, hands shaking and unsure. He swallowed a few times, holding his right one up to count the fingers there. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and again, 1, 2, 3—

 

His comm buzzed on his bedside table loud enough to jar him out of his thoughts. His hand groggily fished around until he could tap three times on the screen and the room filled with noise from the device, speakers around him flaring to life.

 

“Mom?”

 

“Yes! Elliott! How are you, darling?”

 

His mouth formed a smile wide enough to split his cheeks and he quickly rolled off the bed to grab his comm, pressing a button as the projector above his bed suddenly painted an image against his bright red wall.

 

His mother was waving up at the camera, holding it at an angle so that he could see the small robo companion behind her that chittered and beeped in response. He felt warmth rush over him at the sight, raising his hand back to her.

 

Elliott loved his mother so much.

 

She was white, with bright blond hair and clear blue eyes.

 

His first brother had been dark skinned, darker than him, with brilliant splotches of pale on him. When he was little, Elliott used to tell him he had constellations on his skin. His next brother had been tanner than Elliott by a slim margin, deep brown eyes and jet black hair. He used to sneak Elliott sweets. In contrast, his oldest brother was deathly pale. He had deep amber colored eyes and almost translucent hair. He was always reserved.

 

They were all adopted, Elliott knew that now, but it never occurred to him as a child. He knew that their mother hadn’t given birth to them, but they were his brothers, his family, and when they all rushed off to war he swore he’d keep a light on for them, always. He was too young to fight like he wanted.

 

He remembers the news they’d received: MIA.

 

Elliott’s mother had collapsed, sobbing desperately. She’d wailed and wailed and Elliott felt at a loss for what to do, other than throw himself headfirst into her work with her. It kept their minds busy, it helped him mature, and it’s what got Elliott to the Apex. He knew, logically, he couldn’t die from the game, but most Legends killed themselves after a while, the stress far too great.

 

He was starting to empathize with that.

 

“I’m fine, Ma, just tired. What time is it for you?”

 

“Morning!” she said, voice lilted and chipper, “oh... Oh, I woke you up! Elliott, you just rest, I’ll—“

 

“Mom,” he chuckled, sitting down on the end of his bed, closer to the projection. She chewed on her lip nervously before him. “What’d you need?”

 

“Well it’s just,” she paused, frowning and shooing the small robot away from her as she adjusted to take a seat, “you’ve been off lately, sweetheart. In interviews, at least. Is what they’re saying true? Do you have a boyfriend?”

 

He tensed and looked down.

 

“Oh, sweetie, I would love to meet him.”

 

“No! No, I, I—“ Elliott shoved the heels of his palms into his eyes in frustration, “they’re not my boyfriend. Bloodhound’s not even a boy, Ma.”

 

“I’m aware you like both sides of the playing field, El. I read every interview.”

 

He groaned at that and shoved a pillow in his face, falling back onto his bed. “Bloodhound isn’t a girl either.”

 

“Oh...” she said slowly, and Elliott peeked out to watch the wheels turn in her head. “Oh! That’s called, um... It’s— they’re not on the gender... bi...nary?”

 

His face perked up and he laughed, “yeah! Yeah, Ma. I’m glad you still keep up with that sort of thing.”

 

She snorted, “El, you’ve had some odd partners over the years and I never want to disrespect someone close to you. I know that whole scene was always your thing, so I try to keep up best I can.”

 

Her eyes were soft and bright and the sun cascading around her made him miss home. He knew it was nothing like it was before, torn to shreds by the tides of war, and Makoa told him of his times in SARAS and always made sure to keep tabs on his mother for him. She was a smart woman though, moving when she needed and keeping her head above water.

 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, “but Bloodhound is not my partner.”

 

“Well you coulda fooled me!” she laughed, “the way you took them down in the Apex last night, El, I haven’t seen you look that distraught in a long time.”

 

“They’re just... Nice to me? And they’ve got a nice laugh, but I’ve never really, really heard it. Just their chuckles. And they think I’m funny! Not just when I try to charm them, but all the time. They always respond to my p, uh, p-puh— jokes. They’ve always got my back too, and they, they’re so good, I feel like a monster every time I—“

 

“Slow down, sweetheart, and breathe. Would being romantically involved with them really be so terrible? You talk about them so fondly, I... Well, I know you must be lonely, Elliott.” She looked marginally sadder now. “You sound like you’ve got a bad case of puppy love.”

 

“No! Of course it wouldn’t be bad, I just, I keep getting closer to them and the more I do the more I’m afraid of tainting them. I mean, hell, Ma, I—“ his eyes flicked over to his side table, to the chain with three sets of dog tags attached. They’d been extras, given to him before his brothers departed. He stood and walked around his bed, fingers skirting along the duvet before arriving at their destination, touching the chain like it might tarnish when it made contact with his skin. “—I got a lot of baggage.”

 

“Get to know them more!” His mother beamed, “don’t carry that burden alone!”

 

“Mom, I’m fixing myself before I force someone else to put up with me.”

 

“We don’t fix things that aren’t broken, dear,” she smiled, “take care, Elliott. I love you more than words can describe.”

 

“And I you, Ma.”

 

The call fizzled out, projector whirring as it oriented itself and shut down. Elliott tugged the necklace up and over his head, opening his blinds with a determined air about him.

 

“Comm, reach Bloodhound.”

 

 

 

 

 

The city was quiet when dark, and Bloodhound was absolutely clueless as to where they were being dragged to. Elliott had called them and begged them to come out with him, despite the fact that it was ungodly early in the morning, nighttime still dancing in the sky and the stars still burning as bright as ever. Elliott had brought two small black cutouts, sticking them to the lenses on Hound’s mask, and asking them to trust him.

 

Against their better judgement, they did.

 

When they stopped moving, Elliott pulled the paper away with featherlight fingers. Hound made a small noise at the sight of him, round brown eyes shining under the starlight and hair messy from the light breeze. His cheeks were tinted with color and he was biting his lip in a sheepish smile. The tug at their heart let Bloodhound know they were thoroughly fucked.

 

“We never got to go to the burger joint, so,” Elliott swayed to and fro on his heels to the balls of his feet, arms clasped behind him. A bag rustled and Bloodhound blinked, as the smell of grease wafted through their mask. Elliott grinned, producing the food before them. “Surprise?”

 

Hound snorted, actually snorted, before they could catch themself. They froze, mortified, before Elliott laughed so obnoxiously they feared they’d wake the city goers who had to be a mile out by now. “Elliott—”

 

“It was adorable,” he snickered, taking Bloodhound’s hand and leading them toward a large tree. They looked to the right and saw the lights of the city dimming in the background, far away from the pair.

 

“I don’t wish to be infantilized.”

 

“I’m not, Hound,” Elliott assured, beginning to divide the food, “there’s nothing wrong with embracing a softer side of yourself.”

 

“I have never been soft.”

 

“Oh yeah? Musta been a joy as a kid, then,” he snorted. Bloodhound frowned in their mask, looking down.

 

“I don’t remember what I was like. Young and stupid, I suppose.”

 

“Don’t remember?” Elliott repeated, brow furrowing, “do you remember your real name?”

 

“No,” they ceded, “I work only as the Gods instruct me, Elliott. I have no time for frivolity.”

 

“One second I’m sure you like me and the next I’m terrified you’re gonna shank me,” he sighed. “So, we gotta pick one.”

 

“One what?”

 

“A name, stupid, a name.”

 

They stared down at the food now in their lap. “I do not require one.”

 

“Maybe not,” Elliott shrugged through a mouthful of burger, “but you deserve one.”

 

Hound’s breath caught in their throat and they sat deathly still. Elliott was still munching along, muttering about calling his mother and having a life changing heart-to-heart, but Hound was too busy listening to the own stuttering staccato in their own chest. Everything felt tight and too small. They gasped quietly but no air wanted to give.

 

“And anyway, why’s she still building robots? Like, couldn’t she just get an animal companion? And—“ Elliott glances over and sees them, the way their chest stutters, and he freezes, deathly still. “...H-Hound?”

 

They shake their head and begin to fumble for their mask with shaking hands and Elliott grabs them away, opening his own palm up.

 

“Mask off?” he asks.

 

They nod.

 

Elliott clasps his eyes shut and fiddles around, knocking their hat off and jumping when his fingers met soft, textured hair. It was straight, yes, but he recognized the feeling between his fingers. He managed to knock back their cloth covering, lift the straps, and tug the mask off.

 

“Breathe, buddy, breathe.”

 

With his eyes still closed, Elliott grabbed for their hand, pressing it to his own chest.

 

“One, two, three,” he said slowly, resting his own palm to their torso. He kept counting until their breathing slowed.

 

“You. You kept your eyes closed?” they asked shakily.

 

“Uh, yeah? Having a panic attack isn’t an excuse for me to fuckin’ violate your privacy.”

 

A panic attack? Hound didn’t know they could even have those, never gave much thought to their own feelings, but something about their past dredged up a whole new feeling of intense pain and regret. Elliott had respected them, even in this, and they noticed the way his arms strained from their position. How long had it taken to calm Hound down? Ten minutes, at least.

 

“I am okay,” they whispered, taking the mask back and slipping it on. They didn’t bother with their hair or hat. “You may open your eyes.”

 

Elliott did, and beamed at their hair like a kid in a candy store.

 

“It’s so long— and dark, wow...” he wordlessly took a strand in his hands.

 

“Yes it’s. One of my more androgynous features,” they muttered.

 

“I’ll find a feather to put in it for you,” Elliott grinned, “my brothers and I always did that as kids.”

 

“I am sorry for my behavior,” they whispered, pulling away from Elliott. “I have ruined another outing.”

 

Elliott quirked his head like a dog, “what? You think... you’re talkin’ to a guy with some gnarly PTSD, you think anxiety is gonna make me run?”

 

“I am very sorry.”

 

Elliott’s eyes softened. “You don’t ever have to apologize for what you feel, Hound.”

 

“I do not like thinking about my past, or my name,” they stated simply, letting out a shaky breath. “I am never this weak.”

 

“My dad beat the shit out of me till I couldn’t walk when I was a kid, if that helps,” Elliott blurted out. His eyes widened and he slapped a hand over his own mouth, groaning and smacking his forehead with the other. The next few words were muffled. “I have no idea how to comfort someone.”

 

Bloodhound raised an eyebrow, “were you trying to be relatable?”

 

“Yeah...” Elliott drew the word out, removing his hands, laughing breathlessly, “guess that’s. That’s not really something most people relate to, huh?”

 

“I suppose not.”

 

Elliott hummed in response.

 

“Sorry, I always overshare. I just wanted to kinda make you feel not so alone. Like, you’re n-nuh-not weak.”

 

“Thank you,” they smiled, “I am smiling.”

 

Elliott made a happy noise in the back of his throat, grinning at them, “I bet you look radiant.”

 

“That’s your best compliment?”

 

“It is after dropping my traumatic childhood abuse bomb on you.”

 

“Does that usually go well on dates, Elliot?”

 

“This is a date?”

 

“What?”

 

“What?”

 

They blinked at each other.

 

“Do you want it to be a date?” Elliott asked.

 

Bloodhound eyed the hopeful look there. It was sincere, unadulterated adoration, “I think I do.”

 

“Feels kinda like a therapy session,” Elliott snickered, “you’re my emotional support hound.”

 

“I’m shooting you next time I’m in range of a gun, squads be damned.”

 

“Hey!”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> elskan- darling  
> vertu kyrr- stay still  
> blekking- literal translation is “illusion” but used here for mirage  
> allfather, leiða hann aftur til mín- allfather guide him back to me


End file.
